


And now I'm melting from my wings

by thp_cara (TheHolosexualPan)



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Developing Relationship, Drugs, Graphic Description, M/M, Mafia AU, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organized Crime, Strangers to Lovers, Time Skips, Zouchies, but not really, its a tad rushed sorry ;;, small ones but alas, the setting is kinda bioshock inspired so vintage in a way, with a touch of magic drugs and a bit of artistic liberty, wounds are described but later violence is glossed over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHolosexualPan/pseuds/thp_cara
Summary: When he finds out about a theft that had happened right under his nose, Cub is furious.
Relationships: Cubfan135/Zedaph (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 14





	And now I'm melting from my wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kolurize](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kolurize/gifts).



> This fic doesn't present the healthiest of relationships and the setting itself is quite dark.  
> Please, _please_ keep that and the tags in mind if you decide to read.  
> Take care of yourself.

Cub looks out the window with a pensive look, one hand holding a pipe up to his lips, even if he just enjoys the smell of the smoke for a moment, heavy and somehow frosty, just as cold as the glass covered in lattice made of ice, the tendrils of ice breaking up the sight of the city beyond it. Still, the sound of the nightlife doesn’t elude him. He can hear the cars, the steps, the laughter and, every so often, the singing of a man freshly betted out of whatever fortune he might have possessed at one of the many casinos and bars in the area. It’s supposed to be a peaceful scene, serene in the way that it doesn’t intrude on the happening within Cub's walls, but ambient in a way, something he could maybe lose himself in, and Cub's face is carefully blank, dark eyes fixed onto the window and body relaxed, but still posed to be casual. The white of the suit only serves to outline the dark grey beard and the deep blue rose pinned to his chest, but all in all, Cub is only missing a glass of wine n his free hand, though, perhaps, champagne might suit the atmosphere better, to look like a simply man enjoying the smaller things in life. It is not the case.

Cub is furious.

There’s no obvious change in the way he holds himself, only a longer blink and a steady inhale, followed by a sigh, but his eyes harden ever so slightly as he takes a drag out of the pipe, the translucent smoke fluttering around him before disappearing, as if swept away by an invisible hand.

Cub is not a stupid man. 

He had known, even before he’d gained his name, of the responsibility and power he would get to yield, he’d craved it even, the control feeling steady in his hands after years of getting used to the role he would end up playing, a comfortable weight, but Cub had also been aware of possible betrayals, of backstabbers, of people who would worm their way into his empire if only for a taste of the secrets that lie beyond, and Cub had prepared for it. He doesn’t trust easily, he makes sure that the people who work for him know only as much as they need to fulfill their jobs and Cub is the last person through which all the matters involving his product end up going, the last barrier of mind games. Expecting theft would be a necessity more than anything, given the nature of his business, and Cub takes another drag of his pipe before looking down and placing it on the mahogany desk to his right.

Traitors, thieves, spies, criminals, Cub had expected and accounted for. 

some of his employees like to talk behind his back, calling him aloof for not even noticing when the expected amount of product that reaches him is ever so slightly smaller than what it should be, they think him maybe willfully naive, in a way, but Cub is all too aware of their dealings in his name, of what each and every one of them takes home after work, and Cub closes his eyes to it.

Seemingly.

People don’t question dismissals if Cub gives a good enough reason for them and, if by any chance, some of the employees fired end up never turning up again, being lost to history and the records of the police, they are none the wiser, Cub makes sure of that.

Because Cub knows what he's doing. He’s learned it the hard way, how to do his own job, how to manipulate and lie, where to close his eyes and where to use a more direct approach. 

But nothing of this caliber had ever happened before.

Cub looks down at the papers scattered over his desk, eyes flying over the words for the tenth time at the very least this evening, and his brows furrow just a little, fingers clenching around one of the documents until it crumbles in his hand.

Cub is always prepared for the most dangerous attack, one that comes from the inside, and he has eyes everywhere, has people that would never even dream of lying to him in every darkened alley, in every opulent corner, but this…

A whole shipment, gone, just like that. 

And Cub has let the thought develop until a conclusion could be reached. It’s an outsider this time, someone desperate, someone who would risk whatever is left of their pitiful life for what is Cub;’s, and Cub nats something worse than death for them.

With eyes like the night itself, Cub rights himself, bringing a pleasant smile back on his lips when he hears the knock on his door, and he isn’t surprised to see the man that, without waiting for a go ahead, busts into the room, the purple velvet of his own suit making his status obvious.

Scar doesn’t look alarmed, but there is a lopsided smirk on his face once he spots Cub, the cat in his arms blinking at Cub lazily before hiding her face in the nook of Scar’s arm with a low mewl.

“Mayor Scar, how delightful”, Cub says, keeping his tone sweet and calm. He knows he is a good actor, but Scar knows his tells, they’ve known each for too long for him not to, “Whatever brings you here tonight?”

“A little birdie told me about what happened”, is said with a raised eyebrow, but the smirk is still set in place, “What do you plan to do?”

Cub thinks about it for a second. Scar isn’t here for the bullshit answer, an investigation is already well on its way and Scar has just as much knowledge about the business they shepard together to have some ideas himself, if he’s come to Cub in the middle of the night.

“I think you know.”

The only reply he gets is a shrug. From the gleam in Scar’s green eyes, the way it makes them shine even shadowed as they are by the brim of his hat, he has some information, but he won’t be the first to break. People tend to assume that Scar is the kinder of the two and, outside of business, they would be right, but he is a wholly different beast when set on the spot, as they both are right now.

As Cub thinks of just how much he should disclose, Scar limps his way into the room, switching his hold on Jellie to hold her with one arm, his other hand taking hold of Cub's pipe. He takes a slow drag of it and Cub sees the way, just for a second, his face seems to morph, but after the second passes, Scar looks as normal as he always has.

“We are looking for an addict, probably middle class, smart, but not academic. They didn’t leave anything behind, but that amount is sure to leave a trace  _ somewhere _ ”, Cub explains, calmly, even as the reminder on how negligence on more accounts than one had allowed this to happen. Sar nods along as he listens and the warm teasing smile is replaced by the cold calculating looks he always has when connecting dots in his mind, Cub can only wonder what sort of wonderful and grotesque picture Scar’s mind is painting right now.

Scar looks up at Cub, then away, and he is mumbling something as he sits himself down on Cub's chair casually, the gold of the monocle glinting in the lamp light encased in silk just next to him, the turquoise light of it almost making him look eerie. Cub is intrigued.

“If this person managed to do this, say, Cubby...”, his words are careful, as if he were toeing a line, and Cub doesn’t like that, but he knows Scar always has a reason for his plans, no matter how ridiculous they seem. He has a mind for details, like that, and out of the two of them, he is the better actor.

“Go on”, Cub mutters, crossing his arms over his chest, but he is intrigued now.

“Don’t you think it would be a waste?”

Cub has to blink before Scar goes on, voice a whisper, but just as firm as before.

“You want to dispose of them, I assume, and painfully, but _ I _ think that would be a shame.”

There’s interest along that strategizing gaze in Scat’s eyes and Cub wants to be angry, wants to tell Scar that he is an idiot, but Cub knows better.

Still, if he looks away with a huff, going back to his place by the window, the quiet surrender left unspoken is something that Scar respects.

They sit in silence for a bit longer after that, letting the option, the plan, develop itself, layer by layer, but Scar does leave once Jellie begins stirring where he still holds her in his arms and, soon enough, after goodbyes that hide tenseness behind thoughtful politeness, Scar pats Cub on the shoulder with a solemn expression on his face.

“I’m not asking you to spare them, not just yet, not before we know more, but think about it, will you?”

Cub looks at Scar for a moment, but then sighs, brows drawn down, lips set into a thin line.

“Fine.”

That’s all Scar needs to hear before he disappears down the hallway.

Suddenly, Cub is alone again and there’s even more considering he needs to do before the night is over with.

* * *

In the end, they find the perpetrator in a bar at the edge of the city, close enough to the port that it is almost not surprising.  _ Almost _ .

Cub awakes to the notice and to a car that seems unobtrusive enough and he knows, suddenly, that he’ll have to go there himself. He remembers what Scar had told him two nights prior and, with a long sigh, Cub gets dressed, making sure to hide whatever irritation still linger behind a steel mask of forced pleasantries. 

Cub settles into the car, smoothing over the lines of his light gray suit. The driver doesn’t need more than a look to start the car and, soon enough, as they weave their way through the thick fog of an early autumn morning, Cub starts thinking, planning, reasoning his way to a course of action.

If whoever did this managed to pass through the security measures easily enough to secure an entire container of his product, but had somehow been foolish enough to appear with stains of it leading back to him in public, then perhaps Cub's earlier assumptions about their intellect had been slightly off, but Cub still thinks that there’s something more to this story, and Scar’s words come back to him. The thought that they are dealing with an addict who, in the throes of desperation, had managed to find a way to bypass Cub's protocol’s, seems more accurate than ever now and Cub has to wonder if, perhaps, their judgement hadn’t been clouded by the drug itself. Despite that, it’s still just a bit odd that it isn’t a more high profile persona;ity who’d ended up weaseling their way through Cub's business, but Scar wouldn’t have asked Cub to consider sparing them if that had been the case. They have enough important people on their side, whether as friends or business partners. They don’t need anymore.

Cub would be lying if he said he wasn’t at the very least a little intrigued, but the whole situation is still off somehow, ever so slightly. 

With a shake of his head, Cub dismisses that last thought, It would be better if he just got to understand what exactly had happened and how to prevent it in the future, rather than making an uneducated guess based on a gut feeling. 

The drive is peaceful enough, but that doesn’t render the shock that makes Cub's eyes widen a bit when they stop in front of a pub, half hidden in the shadows of a much bigger building off to the side.

Reaching into his pocket, Cub draws out the note that he’d received that morning from Tango. The address seems right, but the local looks rundown in a way that wouldn’t hint at any of the people residing there even being able to afford the drug, let alone any of them having enough funds to gain an addiction, but perhaps Cub is being unfair. He shouldn't underestimate the effects of it, not the lengths the average citizen would go to for even a hint of the abilities provided by it, Cub knows, but the broken windows behind metal bars and the peeling paint and the trash lining the sidewalk outside of it, illuminated by the sole lamp that breaks through the gray morning with a flickering, dim light, they paint a picture so different from what Cub had expected.

Still, he blinks and steps out of the car. This isn’t the sort of place where he’d be recognised, but a look down at his clothes, at the fine cut of the material, has Cub wondering if his own aesthetics mightn’t be the one to give him away, in the end, but if worse comes to worse, he can deal with a few dozen drunks and whatever their words might carry against Cub's own. 

He makes his way to the pub with sure steps, the sound of them ringing through the quiet street and, even before Cub comes to stand before the door, he can hear the ruckus inside, a weird combination of singing and yelling and what Cub distinctly recognized as voices fighting. It’s not unusual.

Cub doesn’t get to open the door when it swings open, all but slamming into the already deteriorated wall with a loud bang, but Cub has enough sense to hide his surprise and step out of the way when someone is shoved outside. The smell of booze comes wafting through with him and Cub barely catches a glimpse of whoever had thrown him out, the apron and stern look on their face revealing them as the barkeeper. The door closes again, rather loudly, a bit more so than it had opened, and all Cub is left with is the heap of a person collapsed in front of his polished shoes. The shock fades and, instinctively, he sizes up the man before shaking this occurrence off and making his way inside the pub. He’s glad he does.

He cannot see much from the way the man is crumpled at Cub's feet, face down, looking almost dead, were it not for the small movements of his torso that signify his breathing, but the mop of tangles, pale yellow locks doesn’t fit the brown, cheap fabric of the sweater he is wearing, nor the faded dark gray of his trousers, and he reminds Cub of an older fisherman, someone’s who’s made their whole life at sea, but never gained much from it, someone’s who’s, now, been left to waste away at the edges of society itself. Lack of composure and drunken mumbling that is almost incomprehensible to Cub aside, Cub can smell something other than alcohol and smoke and cheap food, now that he is focusing on it, and the sharp, almost cold scent of VEX permeates the air.

Carefully, Cub steps back, eyes narrowing before his expression melts back into casual blankness. He doesn’t think the man notices him, doesn’t the think that he is even aware of the danger he is in right now, quite literally, because he doesn’t just smell like someone who’d been consuming the drug, the smoke of it clinging to his skin and his clothes, no, the odor is strong enough that, wouldn Cub not know any better, he’d think he was carrying it around.

With slow and clumsy movements, still probably unaware of Cub watching him or of his surroundings, the man gets up. 

The ashen complexion seems sickly, but it still makes his purple eyes stand out against the bags under his eyes and there’s something off in the way he moves. It confirms Cub's suspicions that he is under the effect of the drug, but it still takes the man a surprisingly long amount of time before his gaze focuses back into reality and, then, onto Cub himself.

To Cub's surprise, just about the widest smile he’d ever seen tugs at the man’s lips, as though he were greeting an old friend, and it looks as forced as ever, to the point where it is almost unnerving.

“Heyy...”, the man slurs, taking a shaky step towards Cub before he stumbles two steps backwards, his back hitting the old wall of the pub, “Come’ere to...”

The man pauses to clear his throat, is voice raspy and weak from more substances than just VEX consumed, probably, and Cub has to roll his eyes. Of course he’d have to deal with a drunken mess instead of someone he could possibly talk to,  _ of course _ . He is tempted to forget whatever Scar had told him and just spare the man from his misery by drawing the handgun he always hides in the lining of his coat.

“C’mere to have a wee lil’ drink sir?”

Cub raises an eyebrow and the man’s eyes widen with an almost humorous amount of shock.

“No? Well, I guess no… Whatcha doing here, sir? You look...”, he leans forward, as if to get a better look at Cub and Cub almost wonders if he’ll fall, if the way the man seemingly lacks any motor skills at all, “Expensive...”

_ You’re drunk _ , Cub wants to point out, but doesn’t, and the man’s never fading smile only seems to widen, to the point where it looks painful, and he throws his head back, laughing until he  _ does _ fall over.

From the floor, one again, though, to his credit, he is sitting against the wall this time, he continues giggling before looking up at Cub again.

“You’re a quiet one, arentcha…?”, he is giggling, h, now, and Cub just wants to get this over with, so he grabs the man, a firm hand closing around the collar of his cheap sweater. Something like alarm slips into the man’s fakely cheery expression, but Cub doesn’t really care as he begins dragging him towards his car. There’s barely a weak resistance against it anyway, until even that fades, and a glance backwards shows the way the man is back to smiling, built his eyes seem blank again, and Cub wonders just how intoxicated he is, whether with alcohol or VEX. He will have to have the man tested before actually interrogating him, it would seem, and Cub rubs his temples with his free hand, but it does nothing against the forming headache. 

A few minutes later, the man is standing with Cub in the backseat, leaning precariously close to Cub, and he almost wants to push him away, his annoyance rising ever further, but the sense of wrongness, of something not being right with the man, with the whole situation, is still there, so he lets him bring his head onto Cub's shoulder with only a deep sigh. Maybe it’s because of just how rough he seems, not someone who could possibly perform such a heist against Cub, maybe it’s because of how easily he had went with a complete stranger, but his sources aren’t wrong, and if they are, somehow, off, whatever direction they pointy him in sometimes will provide additional information if not the answer Cub is looking for. 

As caught up as he is in analyzing the situation and the weirdness of it, Cub almost doesn’t hear what the man murmurs into his shoulder.

“‘Re you with ‘em…?”

His voice sounds small, almost scared, and it is now that Cub realises that things might be more complicated than he’d first thought.

Cub doesn’t answer him, still ignoring him, and, instead, he addresses the driver.

“You will go pick up Stress after you bring us back.”

* * *

The moment the driver plops the man into one of Cub's spare chairs inside his office, one that is not as nice as his own, but still lavish enough, sturdy wood carved in detail and only peeking out of the velvet cushions where needed. The careful craft of it is easily overshadowed by the mess of a man that just about melts into the soft fabric with these groans that almost sound like snores, but the man’s purple eyes are still half open and, despite the too relaxed state of his body, Cub can tell how on edge he is just because of how his blinking speeds up as he takes the office in.

The change of scenery seems to trigger something in him, Cub discerns, and he becomes more apprehensive than he had been before, as if he only now realises that something isn’t quite right. And he would be right.

The more time Cub spends trying to put the man into the context of the theft, the more he tries to connect him to it, Cub finds himself succumbing to the hypothesis that this is both not quite, and yet, even more complicated than he’d thought, because the person he has managed to catch, the one responsible for the property stolen doesn’t really seem like the sort of guy to organise and puppeteer such and event. Cub doesn’t shut that idea down entirely, of course he doesn’t, he wouldn’t let himself relax before he has all the facts, but he wonders how much of this man’s involvement is chance and forceful coaxing in the name of the real masterminds. 

Really, had Cub seen him in any other context, he’d assume he was just an average guy, perhaps someone with a higher education at most, but definitely not someone that would just step into Cub's world like that, and appearances can be deceiving, but if Cub weren’t good at his job and at not letting conventions distract him, he would have lost his positions and his life long ago. Still, when their eyes meet, he can see something there, something that goes a little bit deeper than drunken stupor or the lingering aftereffects of Vex, something more personal, something cautious, and Cub is interested, his annoyance set on the backburner for now.

“What is your name, kid?”, Cub asks, simply, finally addressing the man, and it rouses him out of whatever thoughts he’d been lost in, making him blink before gathering himself and sitting upright in the chair, even if he is still a bit crooked sideways, the smile that had only lessened instead of fading completely, which is a bit weird in and of itself, only becoming brighter. Faker.

“He speaks!”, the man says after hiccupping, and he looks like he is trying to make himself sound more signified when he puffs out his chest and tucks some strands of soft looking, blonde hair behind his ears, but he hiccups just before he continues speaking too, so the effect is lessened significantly, “Goodness, but that makes communita… Comushin…  _ talkin’ _ so much easier!”

Cub lifts an eyebrow at the man and he  _ giggles _ before clearing his throat and before his expression softens into something a bit more genuine, a bit more confused.

“But I don’t know your name, either...”

Cub holds in the urge to roll his eyes. He may not be well known outside of his financial status to normal people, but his name is still not a secret, so if that is a way to get more information out of the man, Cub supposes it’s not that important.

“Cub.”

“Cub…?”, the man asks, trying out the name, and it sounds soft, for some reason, more so a whisper than anything. Cub frowns. The man seems to get the idea and perks up, laughing a little before trying to stand up to, presumably, shake hands, before he stumbles back into the chair.

“I’m Zedaph!”, he says, and Cub sighs at the childish laugh that the man,  _ Zedaph _ , cannot seem to hold back. Still, it’s… Something about it makes Cub keep looking at the way he throws his head back, unrestrained, probably unaware of how much danger he is in.

Cub is about to ask something else, the words forming on his tongue before he can think them through, but with the sort of mood he’d been in, the driver must have really heeded his words, because before Cub can utter anything, the door to his office opens.

It’s not slammed against the wall, but it’s not opened demurely, as if to hide the entrance of the person standing in the doorway, and, really, with the way Stress holds herself, it isn’t surprising, the way she steps in confidently, but not brazenly. She knows the trust placed in her and she knows her own influence. They all do.

“Stress”, Cub greets her simply, taking a step back from where Zedaph is still slouched on the chair and trying to get glimpses of Stress by stretching until he can peek over the back of the chair, turning to face her. She nods and gives him a small smile, one which Cub cannot help but reciprocate.

“Cub”, she says kindly as she closes the door behind her and… Is Zedaph cowering away from  _ Stress _ of all people? Though that is not necessarily the case, she is the least visually threatening person in Cub's household, a finely made, magenta suit edged in soft looking lace and a white coat thrown over it, flowers embroidered in the hems, all of it topped with black gloves, fitting her perfectly. Her hair sits in a neat, short braid and her face is open, brown eyes warm and kind, just like the rest of her, but she also know how to kill someone in probably more ways than she cares to admit and, though it isn’t a skill she uses anymore,  _ Zedaph _ doesn’t know that. It’s intriguing, to say the least, and it really makes Cub wonder, but he doesn’t have anything solid to go off of just yet.

Stress seems to notice the tension, however, and swiftly kicks Cub out of the room, sputtering a bit at her boldness, but, not unlike Scar, she is a friend. Of course she wouldn’t fear him, not when she trusts him as much as he does her. Still, the sense of apprehension is left and Cub deals with it by pacing outside his own office for a bit before he can settle to look at a painting, instead, if only because he can’t quite pick at the seams of the sentiment. If anything, precisely because of how much trust he puts in Stress, why should he be worried about a prisoner of his being in her company? It’s just odd enough to have Cub keep thinking about it. Though, maybe, he shouldn’t rely so heavily on the intoxicated opinions of a stranger. It won’t be something that allows itself to be ruled by logic, he’s come to learn, especially since Zedaph isn’t affected by  _ just _ alcohol

And so Cub waits.

He waits until he starts to wonder if it would be more lucrative if he went to check on progress with any other business endeavours he has, though, at this point, literal house chores would be more productive than sitting around and waiting, he reasons. He doesn’t really see himself picking up a duster or a broom though, so Cub keeps on waiting, stroking his beard candidly and making a mental list of the questions he will have to ask Zedaph once he gets to it and of the punishment he will have to subject whoever orchestrated this to. He’s not fully distracted though, he never is, unless he lets himself, so when the ruckus starts, Cub is already on his feet and opening the door before anything else can happen.

Stress is alone in the middle of the room, a hand outstretched and her eyes wide with shock. There’s something ashen about her grimace, as if she’d seen something awful, but given the lack of her patient, it’s obvious enough.

And if that wouldn’t have been enough to give a short summary of what had just happened, the broken window of Cub's office is. He’s not that high up, but a third floor jump is nothing to scoff at and, before Cub has time to process anything, he finds himself running down the stairs, heading towards the streets covered in grass shards and a broken off metal framing.

Zedaph is standing there, on his feet, fiddling with the sleeves of his brown sweater, but there’s not really any sort of emotion in his face, not even the forced smiles from earlier or the fear at seeing stress, not even the pain that Cub is pretty sure should be there, given the three story drop, but the closer he gets, the more Cub can see just how blank his eyes seem. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

However, eventually, Zedaph does notice him as he looks up from where he seems stuck in place amongst the broken glass, and Cub is glad that there’s not a lot of people out and about right now, the are basically deserted, because that same wide smile returns to Zedaph’s face and, given the context of what had just happened, it’s eerie, even for Cub.

And then Zedaph collapses against the asphalt.

* * *

He wakes with a gasp, his whole body twitching as it shoots up in the couch, blankets tumbling down from the sofa that isn’t necessarily meant to serve as a bed for the sick, as Stress had said, but which she had allowed Cub to move her patient onto reluctantly in lieu of something other than the floor or another chair.

Cub is almost surprised that Zedaph  _ does _ wake up, and he has to wonder just how much his body is damaged because of it, or rather, how much of the damage of falling feet first out of the third story window must have been absorbed by the drugs in his system and how much of it will be shifted to where the drug comes into play, the brain, the nervous system, but as much as Cub knows about his own creation, he still looks to Stress who pulls on a footrest and sits down on it, eyebrows furrowed as she stares at Zedaph, carefully keeping her hands to herself, a notepad resting on her knees, pen tucked at the base of her small braid. Cub wonders if she is being more precautions than strictly necessary so she won’t scare him again, but they can both tell that, at least partially, Zedaph is more sober now than he had been earlier, the wide, unnerving smile that even Cub hadn’t been able to shake replaced by a slight grimace.

There’s a sigh from Cub as he waits for Zedaph to have a reaction,  _ any _ reaction, to finally realising what situation he’s landed himself in becoming clearer with the VEX fading from his system, but for a few seconds more, nothing happens, and Cub pulls out his pipe and goes to stand in front of the fireplace, ears still perked to listen to the going-ons behind him.

“Zedaph, I am doctor Stress”, he hears Stress say gently, her tone low and friendly, but not overly so, “I’m afraid I will have to ask you a few questions and give you a more proper examination, if you are up for it?”

The question is there, but none of the three people in the room recognise it as more than a fake statement of Stress’ politeness. A stuttered breath follows, then another, steadier one. 

“Wh… Why?”

Silence follows the question and Cub breathes in the smoke, closing his eyes before he turns around and, as he blinks and takes in the scene, he isn’t quite ready for the wide,  _ terrified _ look that he finds in the stranger’s purple eyes. There’s sweat beading up on his forehead and his complexion still looks ashen, but that is to be expected, Cub reasons.

“Why?”, Cub finally breaks the quiet, his tone dark before it can shift to something more pleasant, more ironic, “Why indeed... Why do you think you are here, gentleman?”

The word is almost spat out, but either from exhaustion or from the drugs not having fully lost their effect just yet, Zedaph shows his boldness with the way his mouth twists with both confusion and something like insult.

“Oh well, I don’t expect that you remember much from your stupour”, Cub finally says, and he almost lets the disappointment show for what it is, a decision being made, the shape of his handgun pressing against his breastbone something that comes into sharper focus the more Cub realises that he might be wasting his time. Still, Stress shoots him a sharp glare and Cub rolls his eyes, taking another smoke from his pipe, chewing on the end as he raises an eyebrow.

“Stupour…  _ Damn it _ ”, and it is the curse muttered under his breath that makes Cub's interest spark up, as though Zedaph were connecting the dots, the image he was painting for himself not one anyone would deem too pleasant.

“Oh alright, now, don’t stress ‘m out like that”, Stress turns around only to glare daggers at Cub before he can smile at the irony of the statement, and when she turns back to Zedaph, his eyes are misted over, barely open, and he is swaying where he supports himself up with shaky arms, “Now, easy,  _ easy.  _ Don’t fret, there’s things we need to do first.”

It’s a motherly voice that she ends up using, firm, but not uncaring, and Cub has to admire her ability to make people calm down in her presence, because that is precisely what Zedaph does as he sags back against the pillows, eyes closing and his breath becoming a bit less laboured. With another smoke of the pipe, Cub puts the pipe away on a small table next to the chimney.

He crosses his arms and comes to stand next to the sofa, watching as Stress’ careful hands feel at the man’s chest, maybe checking the way his breathing is still not quite back to normal, perhaps feeling for his heartbeat, but when he hand comes up, again, she frowns, sniffing at it before blinking. Zedaph’s breath wheezes out of him as she pokes a finger into his chest and, even to Cub's shock, a stain spreads on his brown sweater, staining Stress’s fingers a dark, almost brownish red. 

Blood.

“What is it?”, Cub asks, but he thinks he knows. Zedaph answers, instead, through gritted teeth, before Stress can. She does, instead, set about maneuvering Zedaph’s arms above his head until she can pull the sweater off and throw it onto the back of the couch, only her medical experience and Cub's own desensitised view on such matter that makes them keep looking at the mess revealed underneath.

“They… They wanted me to bring them something… Or...”, Zedaph trails off as purple eyes stare up at the ceiling, unseeing, and his expression is pinched as if he were trying to remember something just outside his grasp.

_ Interesting, indeed _ , Cub thinks as he narrows his eyes, but nothing else follows other than a painful sounding groan as Stress leans over him and over the caked blood and dirty bandages that cover his chest, her hands prodding at the linens until the separate from skin and, slowly, Cub comes to realise that, while the wounds themselves aren’t nearly as bad, they aren’t slashes or the gorey mess that stab wounds usually become in this stage of the healing process, but there’s…

“Well, that is...”, Cub has to take a deep breath and, really, it’s been a while since he’s been surprised, “Not particularly tactful.”

There’s puncture marks, lots of them, some deep enough that, after the bandages are off, blood and something else still trickles down before Stress can wipe it off with a handkerchief she carries with her. Some are swollen, others less so, but Cub can tell, even from where he sneers at them, slightly distant, angered nonetheless at cruelty that even Cub isn’t quite cold to yet, that they had been placed there forcefully, probably by multiple hands at once, if only to inject the drug faster. A drug potent enough that, in the quantities and having ended up directly in his bloodstream, it should have killed. Yet here Zedaph stands.

“So that is how they got to you”, Cub finally says and, like the storm not ending, but being hushed until it reaches someplace else, he leaves the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

Cub wouldn’t call himself a merciful man, not by a longshot. He’s vanished people before, he’s had others killed, it is simply the nature of his business and he’d grown to know it, to be hardened by the grief of it, but just as he knows what humans will do in the rings he plays, just as he knows what he himself must do to survive and to keep his own friends alive given what they are involved in, he is also fully aware of the uses and repercussions of VEX.

His footsteps aren’t light or even rhythmic, but Cub finds he doesn’t care as he stomps down the hallway until he reaches his own room, dialling up the telephone with barely contained anger. 

It’s that last fact that Cub pins his anger onto. It must be. Afterall, VEX  _ is _ addictive, and highly dangerous. A tolerance can be built, as both Cub and Scar had had to use themselves as tests before they’d allowed the substance out into the public world of darker dealings and darker yet minds, and they can both attest to it because of that, but what he’d seen on Zedaph, on a stranger that Cub shouldn’t see the face of so vividly as he relays, albeit not in clear words, what he’s found out, only for it to be passed onto from Scar’s assistant, Bdubs, to the mayor himself, had been something else entirely. The dosage that must have been used couldn’t have been anything but bordering on deadly and, to give someone no choice in the matter, to force it into their veins, to condemn them to a life of addiction…

Cub isn’t kind, he’s never claimed to be, he knows his hands are stained with blood, he knows that he will not end life as someone who’s turned around and decided to make up for all his crimes, he knows exactly who he is and, just as well, there’s a strange sense of…

Cub exhales, slowly, as he lets the receptor of the telephone hand off of the bedside table, and he gathers his thoughts, but he can’t quite name the odd feeling that seems to influence his mind right now. No, he closes his eyes and, instead of just seeing the wounds, something that, on its own, might just be enough to key Cub in on exactly who had planned this whole event, instead, Cub can also see that face, softer around the edges, set in something dark, almost feral with panic, can see purple eyes, shining with unshed tears, and it somehow manages to make his blood boil even further.

With a hand covering his eyes and another minute spent exercising his own breathing, Cub leans into the frame of the bed. 

Well, whatever the reason his mind has to focus on Zedaph like it currently does, on a stranger that means nothing to him, it doesn’t really matter to Cub. What matters is that, by this time, tomorrow, he will have the perpetrators dead, hopefully with a bullet aimed by Cub himself resting between their eyes.

As he waits for Scar to visit him again, he denies the way he listens intently on Stress’s report and he will negate the way he’d all but run back to the living room, only to ignore the shirtless form of the man passed out on his couch. But the fact that he had stoked the fire as he waited had just been a result of boredom, Cub will reassure himself, and not a result of the still present shiver in Zedaph’s limbs.

* * *

“I have no more information for you, I’m afraid”, is said over a cup of tea, something strong, something that Cub knows will help with the headache, and it’s true.

The morning had been spent in Cub's living room, Zedaph covered in multiple blankets, yet still shaking ever so slightly, and Cub had decided to keep his jacket on the back of a chair, given the heat of the fire. It’s a normal reaction to the drug finally leaving Zedaph’s system, but that doesn’t make it any less convenient.

“Maybe not”, Cub replies from where he sits across his ‘guest’ in an armchair, hands folded in deceptive politeness, “But you’re involved now, kid.”

Silence follows. 

Zedaph hadn’t really met his eyes since waking up in a cold sweat this morning and Cub thinks he might be coming to understand exactly where he is, if a bit slowly, and it confirms Cub's suspicion that Zedaph hadn't known what he had been forcefully shoved into, and the fact is still slightly… Cub shakes his head and rests his bearded chin in his hand, frowning at Zedaph.

“I cannot risk you running off and doing more harm”, Cub finally continues and Zedaph looks at his blanket-covered feet, a slight crease between his brows, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Cub has to look away, but not before he scoffs and curls the fingers of the hand that lays onto the chair’s armrest into a fist. For one, he’d never had to explain exactly how dangerous someone’s involvement in his business could be for them, the people he employs, the people he calls friends, they all now the danger they bring to themselves, and Cub knows exactly how far he has to go to protect them, if it comes down to it. Zedaph is a stranger, an everyday man and Cub is stumped.

“Not sure I could run right now...”, Zedaph says and, maybe because of the unexpectedness of the humour, Cub has to chuckle. Zedaph smiles weakly and closes his eyes, leaning back against his pillows and breathing in deeply.

“No. But I want to know… Why you?”, Cub says, and maybe it’s obvious that he had wanted to ask this question for the longest time, but hadn’t thought he’d get an answer until now. The lines of Zedaph’s face harden for a second before smoothening over in faux calm.

“I told you before”, Zedaph whispers, and he had, but Cub could tell that that hadn't been all, “I don’t know. I don't really... I don’t remember, I suppose… It’s a blur.”

“You got through my men. You did what so many had tried before, succeeded and got away with it”, Cub ponders aloud, and he doesn’t mention that Zedaph had gotten away  _ alive _ where other unsuccessful thieves had paid the price with their own lives, at best.

Zedaph is silent, but his eyes blink open and he stares at the ceiling before, for just the briefest moment, looking at Cub, a shadow falling over his face. That, too, fades, and Zedaph actually pushes the blankets aside, his chest coming into full view again, covered in clean bandages, ones that are imbued with Stress’ own mixture that will supposedly help relaxes his muscles and get rid of the worst of the symptoms, at least, the bodily ones, Once more, Cub has to wonder why the sight of it has his own fists clenching until he stands up, making to step towards Zedaph, only the man’s flinch stopping him in his tracks. Zedap runs his own hand over the white linen, longer, elegant fingers hinting at a better life that he must have led before all of this, because Cub can’t imagine Zedaph being pulled into this mess if he’d not already been somewhere worse in life.

“I guess I just… Maybe  _ that _ helped”, Zedaph says and Cub knows that he is referring to VEX, but even Cub knows that whatever enhancements it offers, they are purely physical, such as allowing one to jump out of a window and sparing them the broken bones that they deserve for such a stunt, though even Cub doesn’t exactly how much worse the effects of a dose as large as Zedaph would be, even if he has some ideas. For most people, VEX simply allows for faster healing, more strength, calmer demeanor, and, really, it is its addictiveness that draws people in. But it doesn’t help one become wiser or better fitted to whatever environment they find himself. No, that had been something Zedaph had been responsible for, and Cub is more than intrigued. Perhaps that would explain the way the man before him holds Cub's interest.

“No”, Cub says simply, showing his hands in his trouser pockets in a show of casualness. Zedaph looks actually stands up now and he stands just a bit taller than Cub himself, willowy, almost frail with the way what must be lingering pains still crouches his posture, makes his limbs not quite sure of how to stand.

“Dumb luck”, Zedaph settles, then, and Smiles, though it’s just a bit uncomfortable, and Cub mentally prepares himself to catch him, if his state has him crumpling to the floor once more, but Zedaph steels himself with another series of deeper breaths. His face is still ashen, but some colour is returning to his skin, even if it is in the form of vivid bruising. It’s not a pretty sight, but not because of the way the blues fading into yellows stands out against his skin, rather., because of the motive, and Cub wonders if he’s gotten softer.

“And did they really pick you up off the streets because they thought you would be fortunate, Zedaph?”, saying his name has Zedaph's eyes widening and Cub thinks about the colour of them, in spite of himself. 

A log falls over in the fireplace, and they both wait, as if due to some silent agreement, for the crackling and popping of it to fade into silence once again.

“I told you. I only remember going about my day, then nothing, and then waking up here.”

They both know it’s a lie, but Cub thinks about something Stress had told him just before leaving, a piece of advice. A warning.

_ Don’t force him. I don’t think it’s a nice story and, if you do, you will get nothing out of it. Give him time. _

Cub tries, but he is growing impatient.

“I don’t thinkI need to tell you that I cannot keep you safe without proper knowledge of what I must do beforehand”, Cub reiterates, at last, and Zedaph smiles, wryly, something darker slipping into his soft voice.

“Why would you?”

It almost leaves Cub speechless and, by the time he gathers his wits about himself, the door opens and Scar and Bdubs are there, Xisuma behind them, the mix of the colours of their suits almost atrocious, the blue and the deep red and the vibrant yellow hinting at the fact that they had all been busy before making their way over. Cub clears his throat, swallowing back another series of questions and he walks to the door, his steps confident.

“Why”, Scar’s loud cheery voice finally rings through the room, “I don’t think we’ve met your  _ guest _ , Cub, why don’t you introduce us?”

And with the way Xisuma nods towards him, eyes sparkling from beneath the brim of his hat, Cub knows that this conversation is informal as much as it is a way to gather information and put their heads together. For a second, Cub almost feels sorry for the way Zedaph curls in one himself again, holding the edge of his shirt to cover the bandages. Cub nods and goes to call for a maid to set the living room back in order, getting rid of any leftover materials left by stress, and to prepare a guest room as he leads the four men to his dining room, where a table and a meal might serve them all better.

* * *

“I was, well, really, I was just taking a walk, then everything went dark. I have been told that Iended up in a bar, but I don't remember anything up to waking up here”, Zedaph explains once again, a bit more quietly, facing Xisuma who, out of all the men sitting at the table, enjoying plates of fresh fruit and a plateau of small, decorated cakes and other sweets, accompanied by coffee, looks the most sympathetic, but he looks smaller still, as if he were afraid of taking any sort of step further in his story, as if the memorie were made of glass. Cub wonders how accurate that really is, but a look from Scar has him just nodding along and sipping at the bitter coffee. Too bitter by far, he thinks as he reaches for the milk.

“Hmmm… Picking a random stranger off of the streets to ensure that  _ their _ numbers wouldn’t diminish in case of failure. Not too shabby, I believe, but, ah. You  _ didn’t _ fail.”

Zedaph looks even more nervous when Scar starts speaking, but that makes sense. After all, Zedaph would only know him as the mayor, not someone involved in the going-ons of the underworld of the city. It must be quite a shock, though Scar has a way of making himself sound friendlier than usual, so, slowly, Zedaph’s shoulders relax, just a bit.

“No, I guess not. But I can’t be of any help. I don’t know their faces or their names or how I did it.”

Cub's eyes switch over to where Bdubs is running a hand through his hair, the more formal outfit clashing with his need to have it pinned back. It’s almost a nervous tick, by now, Cub thinks.

“But VEX does not have amnesic properties”, Bdubs murmurs and Zedaph bites his cheek, knuckles turning white where they clench on the table. He’d not really eaten anything and Cub looks at him until his gaze is returned, nodding subtly at any of the foods. Zedaph looks almost relieved for a second, as if he had been waiting for consent to be allowed to. It nearly makes Cub angry, for some reason. He doesn't like it.

“Yes, but not-so-pleasant memories...”, Xisuma chips in, voice calm and fluent, even as he keeps writing in his notebook, “They don’t leave one unmarked. Even so, I think Cub has some idea of who it might be.”

All eyes turn to Cub, Scar’s shining with curiosity that borders on amusement. Scar knows precisely what Cub is thinking about, after all, they've worked together enough to be able to predict each other, and they’ve been friends for twice as long before their business venture.

“Someone I refused service to some years ago, after his first purchase. I am no beacon of morality, but his practices… Weren’t very tasteful to say the least”, Cub glances at Zedaph’s chest, even if the bandages aren’t visible, now, covered by Zedaph’s buttoned up shirt and a blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“And you think he might have wanted that shipment to indulge further”, Scar says, and it isn’t a question. Cub nods and Bdubs looks between them with narrowed eyes as Xisuma continues scribbling in his notebook. It would be burned after their conversation, but somehow, it seems to help Xisuma piece things together enough to actually come up with solutions to even the most direct situations, so they don’t question it.

“He wasn’t the smart sort, so I wouldn’t put it above him. I know where to find him, but I don’t know how…  _ Protected _ he is. Or if his group has grown in the number of people working for him”, Cub speaks before looking at Bdubs and, maybe he already knows what Cub is about to ask of him, because he groans and runs his hands down his face in annoyance. It is the sort of theatrics that make him endearing, Scar always says, and Cub smiles at it. 

“Nooo, nope, not them! Do you really not have enough men to deal with this on your own?!”, Bdubs directs his irritation at both Cub and Scar.

Scar shakes his head with a smile and pats Bdubs in the back. Though it isn't too obvious, Bdubs relaxes slightly at touch, almost leaning into it before Scar speaks up.

“They’re better at this sort of work, can keep a secret, so really, they’re the best option. And don’t act as if they are strangers”, Scar rolls his eyes with a laugh, and Cub can see, from the corner of his eyes, how Zedaph’ s confusion keeps growing. Of course he wouldn't be aware of the friendly rivalry and connection Scar and Cub and their men would have with a mercenary group residing just outside the border of the city. They had been the first real conflict Scar had had to solve as a mayor, but as soon as their allegiance proved to be useful for Cub's and Scar’s business, that had quickly morphed to something different. Cub has no trouble calling them friends, but Bdubs is more prideful than that. 

“They can find and get rid of this pest, but Bdubs isn’t fond of begging for help. It’s really more like a game, but...”, Zedaph nods qas Cub goes on and is interrupted by an offended gasp from Bdubs, though they all know that he will go ask for help, regardless of how they tease him. It is, at the end of the day, a serious matter, and Cub wants his product back.

_ And that is all, _ he reminds himself, pointedly not looking at Zedaph who now is just staring at the table, a half-eaten biscuit in his hand.

“Well, I wouldn't be begging, thank you very much!”

Scar laughs and most of the people at the table join him. Cub does too until he notices the thoughtful expression on Xisuma’s face.

“X?”, Cub asks as they quiet down, and the hum that Xisuma lets out says that he is thinking about something.

“Just… Hm. If mister Zedaph here managed to steal from you without even dying in the process, I don’t think he would let him slip through his fingers. I don't think  _ you _ will do that either, Cub. I’m just saying…Keep an eye on him. Make sure he can't take him back before our target are taken care of.”

And Xisuma makes it sound like Cub should protect Zedaph, something that Cub, begrudgingly, has to admit to himself that he had already accounted for, but what he doesn’t say is that Xisuma suspects Zedaph, and Cub almost wants to smack himself for being stupid. How he hadn’t thought about the fact that Zedaph could be lying is beyond him, though, deep down, Cub thinks he knows. he doesn’t have time for things a fickle as attraction though, so, slowly, ignoring the tense silence at the table, he nods and looks at Zedaph, who seems just a bit… Off. As if he realizes that Xisuma means more than he says, but cannot figure out what that is. Cub thinks that, if the suspicions that only now make their way into Cub's mind prove correct, then Zedaph is just that good of an actor. 

‘Consider it done. Bdubs?’

Bdubs grumbles some more, but he nods, at long last, and so breakfast continues with conversations that are entirely different from the matter at hand, ones that seem almost weirdly mundane. But they are people, too. Not very good people, but people nonetheless.

When Scar and his entourage leave, with a slightly more forceful grip that Cub would have considered before this morning, considering his clouded judgement, he drags Zedaph to the guestroom that he had asked a maid to prepare before their impromptu meeting.

Zedaph seems genuinely shocked when Cub crowds him against the closed door with a hard look in his eyes, his lips curled with anger, and Cub almost feels bad, but Xisuma’s words come back to him, and he doesn't take well to being tricked, if that is the case. He’d rather know now.

“Who are you, how did you end up here and what are you hiding? If you value the air in your lungs and the blood in your veins,  _ speak _ ”, Cub growls lovely, and genuine fear shines in Zedaph’s eyes before he takes a breath. He takes another and another.

He cannot stop enough to actually speak, panting in the silent room until Cub's resolve starts to weaken, but his grip on the man’s shoulders doesn’t, not just yet. Not until Zedaph all but crumbles in his arms.

“Wait…  _ Wait, please. _ ”

And Cub does. Somehow, for what feels like the first time, he waits, standing there, almost confused, even if he doesn’t let it show, until Zedaph’s breathing slows to something reasonable, even if the earlier rising panic had left his voice raspier, quieter. It comes naturally for some reason and, even as Zedaph begins speaking, Cub is reluctant to let him go. He wants to hate the way that he can still feel the warmth of Zedaph’s skin, even through the layers, as nothing more than a tingle in his fingertips, but he can’t. Instead, Cub looks up at Zedaph’s face and the anger on his face is real, but so is the way he draws back slightly, just until Zedaph stops shaking as much as he is right now.

“Well?”, Cub ends up asking, maybe in an attempt to not seem too considerate, but it feels wrong, too, as much as he logically knows it to be a necessity to establish exactly the sort of situation Zedaph is in.

Zedaph blinks and looks at the floor, the corners of his mouth drawn downwards and it almost looks like he is on the verge of something, but the tension is too thick for Cub to see through it, or maybe he doesn’t want to care.

“I meant it. I don’t… I lost consciousness. I...”, he gulps and, finally, Cub steps away, only to see Zedaph slide down the door, but his expression shifts into something unexpected. Anger, pure, unfiltered anger fills his face, and Cub only recognizes it because of the way the spark in his eyes changes, not extinguished like it had seemed earlier, rather flaming back to life with the venom that clouds his next words.

“He did  _ something _ and I don’t remember, but he left me there, told me to get more if I wanted it, God, but I  _ did _ , it felt like it would kill me if I didn’t get any more.”

And suddenly, Cub thinks back to his own theory, of using an addict that has nothing left to lose, that has one goal and one goal only, and that is VEX, and it makes sense. Inject it into a disposable target and, while they are wriggling in the throes of what should already be a lethal dose, offer more. It would make anyone feel desperate, regardless of allegiance or what they are and aren’t involved in initially. It’s what sells the drug.

“So you didn’t choose to work with this person”, it isn’t asked like one, but it is a question nonetheless, and it’s like Zedaph had forgotten about Cub's presence, because the moment he is made aware of it again, he freezes. The fear returns. Cub denies the bitter taste of guilt on the back of his tongue, but it’s still there, whether he wants it to be or not.

When the silence becomes as obvious as an answer would have been, Cub moves on. Light streams into the room through the large window, but it still feels cold, somehow, and Cub blames the way Zedaph shivers on that.

“And, then, how did you get past my security? Past my men, past my locks, everything that has kept any others who would attempt it at bay.”

There’s something like nostalgia in Zedaph’s tone as he utters his response, partially more so to himself than to Cub:

“I am, was... I made my little inventions, then I didn’t get any more funding and… You know what, don’t even mind whatever I say. Your locks are fine, you just didn’t think of someone breaking the hinges.”

And, not for the first time since he’d met him, Cub is stunned into silence. It sounds simple, really, Zedaph  _ makes _ it sound like something minor, but though he may not realise, Cub knows it isn’t. Sure, the hinge would be a metaphor, but if, in his drugged up state, Zedaph had managed to prevail, then there must be more to him than meets the eye. Suddenly, Cub's interest rears its head in again.

_ He could be useful _ , it says,  _ You could use someone who thinks outside the box _ .

But Cub… Doesn’t want to.

He notices only now, but Zedaph’s voice is sounding quieter and quieter, until it is no more than a whisper in the cold room.

“And then I’m here and my head is pounding and I can’t stop thinking about it. Please just... I don’t know any more than that, I don’t, just...”

“Hush. That’s enough.”

Cub doesn’t know what gets ahold of him, and he will curse himself later for this, he knows that much, but he bends down and, before he can panic again, he picks Zedaph up, gangly limbs hanging loosely from the grip as Cub walks towards the bed. Purple eyes are half lidded and he doesn’t seem to be able to focus, so Cub sighs and just places him on the mattress. He’s not a gentle sort of person, but he tries to be, if only because Zedaph is shivering again and,  _ hell _ , how had the kid managed to worm his way under Cub's skin like this, to the point where Cub forgets some of the basic things he  _ always _ keeps in mind, but he doesn’t think he can get any further today.

“I don’t know what I”, Zedaph mumbles, his eyes closing as Cub clumsily tucks him in, more so messing up the bed to wrap him up in the blankets, “ _ How _ I got here, everything was… I thought it was going well… Maybe he knew. It’s my fault...”

“You’re fine, kid”, Cub says, and he has to pull himself back as Zedaph’s head rolls to the side, because it exposes a fine neck, even if the edge of bruises peeks out from beneath the collar of his shirt, and while Cub doesn’t let emotions rule him, that’s not to say he is made of stone. Zedaph is a handsome man, all in all, and were he to look beyond the sickly pallor of his skin, beyond the bags beneath his eyes, Cub wouldn’t have denied himself his company, brief though it might have been. But Zedaph is here because of this whole mess and, obviously, for some ungodly reason, his presence has already clouded Cub's judgement enough. He sighs. He doesn’t know what has gone wrong in Zedaph’s life and, most likely, Zedaph is already on the cusp of unconsciousness again, so he won’t get his answer right now, but it is curious. God, but once this whole thing ends, maybe-

Cub stops himself there and rises from where he’d been sitting on the edge of Zedaph’s bed, who is now deeply asleep, only the slightest furrow of his brows denoting that he is still not fine. He won’t be for a while, and Cub wonders if he should see about temporarily hiding the VEX he currently has in his possession at his home, but that is something he will have to think about later. For now, it takes all of the concentration he has to actually step away from the bed and stop looking at the sleeping man that he’s known for far too little time to be getting involved with when everything is this messy.

“You’re fine”, Cub says one last time, and leaves. 

He has work to do. Bdubs will take care of what their mercenaries will get done, but Cub wants to be there for it. An idea takes root in his mind, one inspired by the anger he had seen on Zedaph’s face, but he’s thought too much about Zedaph already, so he tries to focus on something else.

* * *

Bdubs doesn’t waste any time to actually talk to the mercenary group, despite all of his groaning about the issue and, just the very next day, Scar lets Cub know that they will just need a few weeks to ensure that no traces will be left behind. Cub lets Scar know about his wish to be present at the scene of the crime, and it’s an easy enough thing to arrange. After all, Cub has managed to keep himself safe and hidden during the worst of moments for years, he can handle this too. 

And so things are settled. Cub is standing over some paperwork that he’s been wanting to get to for the last couple of days in his study, and he is making progress, but it’s just unimportant enough that Cub can afford to let his thoughts drift. A few weeks of waiting to get rid of the threat means that he will have to house Zedaph for s few more weeks and, though Cub wants to be more suspicious than he currently is,  _ should _ be more suspicious of the story he’d been provided with, he can’t help but not really see Zedaph as a danger. 

Which only means that he will probably not be justified in ignoring the virtues of a good host by just about avoiding his guest. The thought is tempting, but Cub knows this is just a fluke, a temporary weakness of pretty eyes and a nice face, and that is all this is, for sure, and he will get over it sooner or later.

A few days pass where Cub tasks his household with caring for Zedaph, talking to Stress about another visit to check on any unforeseen reactions he might have to VEX, and Cub starts thinking that his plan will work, and everything falls into place. He hasn’t let anyone know about his temporary loss, so as to not ruin his reputation, so business is running as smoothly as it usually is. Things are, relatively, back to normal.

And then, on a night as any other, when Cub is wandering the halls of his house, the air itself seeming to stand still, the hour too late for anyone to be up, except of course, Cub himself, things start to change. He has a small glass in his hand, the drink in it potent, something he doesn’t indulge himself in very often, but something that he will, occasionally, have a sip of. It’s a stronger drink, older than most of the bottles he has in his cellar, and it isn’t bad, but unless he plans on having at least two glasses, the sting of it is too strong in the beginning to bring about any enjoyment. Smaller sips aren’t too bad though.

Cub thinks about what he could to pass the time, because though his eyes are aching by now, it’s a restless sort of night. He chuckles dryly to himself. When isn’t it? 

Maybe it’s the sins of a life not even yet finished that press down upon him, so many things done, but so many more things left to do. Cruelness, blood and all manner of inner conflicts are enough to bring a normal man down to his knees. Cub values humbleness, but even he recognizes that his years have hardened him. He’s not even that old just yet, but he’s done things that he regrets, things that have changed him, and it would appear that he has not yet built a strong enough shell just yet, if he still loses sleep over it. He’s learned to keep the thought quiet, at least, and Cub will take what he can get, he tells himself as he pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

As caught up as he is in his musings, Cub doesn’t realise he’s not alone anymore until he stumbles over someone. 

Tired, purple eyes blink down at him, and Cub almost stumbles back before he can catch himself. Zedaph, on the other hand, does fall, dragging with him a small stool on which a vase is carefully sat. As Cub looks down at the shards of it and the wrinkled carpet, he almost wants to laugh, especially as Zedaph’s face turns slightly horrified.

“Oh goodness me, I’m sorry, I-I really didn’t mean to-”, Zedaph starts apologising, but Cub interrupts him with a raised eyebrow and a wave of his hand.

“It’s fine. It can be replaced”, Cub placates, and Zedaph sighs before he tries to stand up. He seems clumsy about it though, and Cub is reminded of finding him drunk and high in a bar, barely able to walk, even with assistance. He can tell it’s not the same, but he can’t help the comparison. Once Zedaph is back on his feet, Cub looks at him with a pensive expression, humming before he asks:

“What are you doing about this late?”

Cub waits, but Zedaph just looks off to the side and crosses his arms over his chest, laughing almost nervously, muttering as he looks for some sort of excuse, and it’s funny, Cub thinks.

“Well, I… Uhm…!”, Zedaph leans into the wall and it only makes the situation more ridiculous, the way he is trying to hide his nerves in front of Cub, but then his eyes widen, as if he’s realised something, “What are…  _ You _ doing up so late?”

It takes Cub by surprise. 

He’s been living alone for such a long time, and were he to encounter any servant of his or employees in the middle of the night, they would probably assume that he has some other things to get to, or they wouldn’t have the courage to let their curiosity show. Zedaph is in the unique position of being almost afraid of Cub because of his situation, but not quite, because he doesn’t  _ know _ Cub, and so he asks, innocently oblivious, almost as if-

_ No _ , Cub reminds himself, it’s not worry, it’s intrigue. Probably.

“The night is young, kid”, Cub shrugs and Zedaph gives him a flat stare before gazing out one of the many windows scattered throughout the hallways.

“It’s almost dawn.”

Well then.

Cub decides to change the direction of their conversation back to their initial course, even if he finds the contours of Zedaph’s profile, somehow more defined in the dim light, distracting.

“And you, then? Early bird or couldn’t sleep?”, he asks once again, making his voice a little more serious. He shouldn’t let himself be soft, but he almost wants to dial it back when Zedaph turns to look back at him, a far off look in his eyes and a hitch in his voice.

“Keep thinking”, he answers truthfully, “Can’t stop… Thinking about how it felt.”

He stalls and Cub takes the opportunity to lead him into the kitchen, Zedaph following maybe because of his slight fear of Cub, but perhaps he is just more pliant when sleep deprived and caught up what Cub knows to be the more rose-tinted dreams that his own product lends people in their weaker moments. It’s almost sad, how the effects remain even if the initial contact had been little more than an imposed violence, but Cub shouldn’t be one to talk.

Cub's glass lays forgotten on a counter as he sets a pot of water to boil on the stove, and Zedaph stands in a corner as if awaiting an order. Cub just nods towards one of the chairs scattered throughout the nicely decorated room. It’s one of the smaller ones in his home, but it is more than enough for one man and his household.

Zedaph does sit, and he almost seems to melt into his seat, using one hand to support his chin and closing his eyes as Cub searches through the boxes filled with dry leaves. He’s spent many nights making himself something warm to drink when sleep wouldn’t come, so if there’s one thing he  _ can _ do in the kitchen, it definitely is a good cup of tea, if someone were to ask. Zedaph doesn’t ask and, instead, he takes a deep breath and hums.

“Cinnamon?”, he asks, and Cub looks down at the box he’s just opened. He smiles.

“Cinnamon and apple.”

Soon, they find themselves drinking their teas in silence, a few more chairs between them, and they don’t really talk, but it’s cozy, somehow.

* * *

It’s easier after that night, Cub decides, and it’s almost like they develop some sort of routine, a kindred friendship based on the brief talks they share in the early hours of morning after nights where neither can quite find the rest they need. They don’t meet every night, of course, but by now, they’ve started sharing breakfast at the first ray of dawn and, whether Cub would finally go to bed afterwards, exhaustion weighing heavy on him, whether Zedaph would nod off, almost knocking off his nocturnal cup of tea, it still remained pleasant. Maybe Cub should have known that, with all that was hiding behind the facade of something good, it would end up rotting away to reveal the ugly truth one night. And so it did, with three more nights before the raid to get back what was Cub's, and maybe Cub had seen the signs, one of his maids whispering to him about how Zedaph hadn’t eaten his lunch, about how he’d just lain in bed instead of doing what he’d come to do, looking out a window, picking a book from Cub's extensive, if a bit underused library, or tinkering with some of the wires and all other sorts of materials he’d managed to sweet talk some of the servants out of during his stay.

And then he didn’t come to meet Cub at night, but that had happened before. Still, Cub made two cups of tea.

After the first sip of the bittersweetness that is root tea and honey, he hears it.

A crash, not unlike the time Zedaph had broken one of Cub's vases, but it sounds sharper somehow, yet not nearly as loud as the window he had broken, and, suddenly, Cub finds himself running. It’s not in his nature, he wants to scrutinize himself, but he is, and in the moment, with adrenaline making his mind less prone to the subtleties of lying, Cub has to recognise the fact that he is worried.

As he slams the door to Zedaph’s temporary room open, the scene he finds is serene only in its stillness. A full moon shines through the window in sharp blades of white light, cutting across the walls and floors and furniture like a well-sharpened knife, but it doesn’t seem to affect the figure laying in the middle of the room.

Zedaph doesn’t react to Cub entering the room, nor does he even blink as Cub shuts the door behind him. His nightshirt is unbuttoned and the bandages are scattered on his folded legs, ripped right off of his chest, yellow where they had been placed directly onto the wounds that Stress had tended to. It’s not at risk for an infection, most likely, what with the punctures no longer looking red and the swelling having died down, but Cub is faced with why he had always advertised his product as something to be taken cautiously, something that would almost be considered magic, the thing that had made it as popular as it is, the image of veins appearing under moonlit skin like dark snakes, fading into Zedaph’s body the further away from the wounds they got. VEX administered directly into the bloodstream is poison, he and Scar had learned, the evidence on it still there, beneath rich fabrics, on Scar’s arms, and though the effect of it is so much more potent that way, so is the danger.

It is only once Cub sits down in front of Zedaph that he reacts, and it is with a pitiful, low whine.

“Zedaph”, Cub says, simply, and Zedaph meets his eyes. The look on his face is empty, something stripped away from him until it isn’t, his ears filling with tears.

He doesn’t look sad, he looks so angry that it almost scares Cub, because it is the look of someone who doesn’t have anything left to lose and who has just realised it. 

“I want...”, for a second, Cub thinks he will ask for VEX, and Cub doesn’t know if he would have been able to refuse him, but then Zedaph’s whisper changes, too, hardening into something indisputable and, in that moment, Cub just wants to grab Zedaph and to hold him, to look in those bright purple eyes and to absorb the heat of the spark shining in them, because he finds Zedaph endearing, as he’s come to learn over more than a few handfuls of nocturnal meetings, but now is when he sees even more, when the rougher edges show, and Cub finds him  _ irresistible _ , “I want to  _ kill _ him.”

They both know exactly what Zedaph is referring to, and he is still angry, even as tears spill down his cheeks, even as he extends both hands towards Cub tentatively, who reaches out to hold him, and it is just the weirdest thing. There’s no direct touch, other than Cub's hand that drifts to the back of Zedaph’s neck, there’s no heat in the way they hold each other, there’s no fire to the air they breathe, but somehow, it’s the most intimate Cub has ever felt with someone else.

Zedaph buries his face in the dark, cool beige lapels of Cub's suit and, through choked off sobs and curses muttered under his breath, the  _ I won’t let him get away after everything _ and the  _ You’ll help me, won’t you Cub?  _ and the  _ You’ll let me kill him _ slip past his lips like sparks about to set something off.

In that moment, Cub thinks that he would watch the world burn if Zedaph were to be the one to set it on fire, and it should be a dangerous thought, because the moment he is able to give that much up for one person that he’s only come to know so recently, then that is a moment he’s signed his own death wish.

But maybe that’s fine, too.

Sunrise finds them still on the floor, Zedaph almost asleep in Cub's arms, dried tears still staining his cheeks, and Cub is tracing the small wounds that are just starting to scar over with his fingertips, and Cub murmurs something, something awfully cheesy, something that he would probably punch himself in the face for, but Zedaph only nods along, one hand clenching where it holds a fistful of the material of Cub's suit, just beneath the blue rose pinned to one of his lapels.

“I don’t think I’ll let you go after this is done with, kid.”

* * *

It goes about as well as it could, but of course, while Cub knows how to take care of himself well enough, and he has about half a dozen people backing him as he goes through the man’s mansion, his croons aren’t untrained, they know their way around the gun just as they know that their greatest strength, right now, is numbers, and so the MR and the two of them split up in smaller group. 

In the end, he finds himself in an office, a gun to his temple, while he holds a knife to the man’s throat. Cub doesn’t think the other notices the sound of a door opening, nor does he understand what is happening until Zedaph appears behind him and cocks his own gun, something Cub had given him with a final look and a warning in his eyes before they’d come here. 

Things blur up after that, black and red and something else blocking Cub's vision as the sound of gunfire rings in his ears and the smell of smoke fills his nose, getting to his head, making the blunt headache starting to form even worse. But the worst pain is in your shoulder, a misfired shot, a moment of hesitation, an exchange that lasts a second, and then it’s over. The last thing Cub remembers is the thud of a body falling next to him. Cub had never thought that panic could grip at him as it does as he wonders who has fallen and who is still standing, and it lasts a short eternity, one that is prolonged by his senses fading, one by one, but then a scream, short, of his name, and Cub smiles crookedly as he lets go.

* * *

Ironically, his consciousness fades to the sound of his name being yelled out in fear, but he wakes to the sound of it being whispered softly, nothing more than breath of it. It hurts to open his eyes, so Cub doesn’t, but feeling returns to him, his fingertips digging into the bedsheets and his brow furrowing. 

“There you are”, is accompanied by a hand cupping his cheek, fingers just on the edge of tugging at his beard, but it’s a gentle touch, a bit cold, and Cub almost wants to let it all fade away again, “You scared me...”

It’s a touch against his forehead that makes him wake up, a flutter of lips, and then a watery laugh as he blinks. Purple eyes meet a dark gaze and Cub doesn’t even feel the fiery pain in more than half of his torso once he focuses on the man before him.

“ _ You _ scare me”, Cub confesses, and it’s obvious that the words hide another layer of meaning, if the way Zedaph laughs lightly is anything to go by, even if it sounds more like a sob by the end of it.

“Good.”

And then he is leaning over Cub and he looks beautiful in the stark light of the noon sun, washed in gold and silver and shadow, the dried blood on his face that isn’t his, a reminder of exactly what had happened, but God, if Cub doesn’t want to just keep looking.

The kiss that makes him close his eyes is a good replacement of the sight too, however.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, well, Cubdaph, huh?  
> I kinda took liberites with the characters since it _is_ an AU, but I actually tried to include certain details from hermotcraft and, in Zed's case, a little reference to his singpleplayer series.  
> Alas, I hope you enjoyed this morbid little thing


End file.
